


eyes closed, head first, can't lose

by betweenthebliss



Category: Gentleman Bastard Sequence - Scott Lynch
Genre: Bar Room Brawl, Drunken Shenanigans, Gen, Locke & Nazca are BFFs, Locke You Idiot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-20
Updated: 2014-12-20
Packaged: 2018-03-02 10:42:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,820
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2809439
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/betweenthebliss/pseuds/betweenthebliss
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Locke, Jean, Sabetha and Nazca go to a bar for some drinks and relaxation. When a drunken idiot invites himself to join them, Locke tries to prove he's crashed the wrong card game. Naturally, things don't exactly go according to plan.</p>
            </blockquote>





	eyes closed, head first, can't lose

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mattador](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mattador/gifts).



"And that's a full dagger," says Nazca, presenting her cards in triumph to the assembled groans of everyone else at the table. Sabetha throws down her hand in disgust, levering herself up and grabbing the empty wine pitcher. 

"I'm going to need to drink more if I'm going to keep losing money like this," she says, pushing back her chair and heading for the bar. 

"She's not the only one," mutters Jean, peering mournfully into the bottom of his cup, then eyeing Locke over the top of it. "You know, when you said 'Let's join the girls for some drinks', I didn't think that meant I'd be getting fleeced in the bargain."

Locke just shrugs, unperturbed as he swirls the dregs of his wine in the bottom of his cup. "If you thought you were safe just because the twins aren't here, you're an idiot," he says. His eyes slide to Nazca, who knows she looks smug and doesn't care. "Though if you keep winning, I might start to wonder if they've been teaching you how to cheat."

Nazca makes a derisive _tch_ , raking him with a scornful look. "As if I need the Sanzas to teach me to cheat at cards." 

Locke rolls his eyes with a conceding gesture as Sabetha comes back, plunking a steaming jug of wine on the table. The spices make Nazca's mouth water, and she slides her cup to Locke to fill; when she drinks, the flavors are mellow on her tongue, heat blooming in her stomach as she sips it down. She's pleasantly warm with alcohol and good company, and the heady pleasure of a night spent far away from anyone who knows her as the Capa's daughter. Here, no one would know any of them from the Queen of the Marrows, which is just how Nazca likes it. 

"One more round, then?" she says archly, collecting the cards and offering them to Sabetha to shuffle. "Unless this is getting too steep for you-- I've never heard it said the Gentleman Bastards walked away from high stakes, but maybe those people were just talking about the twins." She takes off her optics and polishes them on her shirttail, glancing around the table to see who'll take the bait.

"I want you to know that I know what you're doing," says Locke with the deliberate enunciation he gets when he's starting to have trouble holding his liquor, "and I'm falling for it with both eyes open. Shuffle the damn cards," he says to Sabetha, a glint in his eye. "And we'll see how steep this gets."

"Steep enough to make even a Barsavi tread carefully," Sabetha murmurs, flicking an incendiary look in Nazca's direction that makes her stomach dip with delight. 

It's a pleasant fiction, this uncomplicated friendship between them, the idea that it doesn't matter who her father is or that there's a power gap between them wide enough to steer a barge through-- but Nazca's friends are few in number, and she'll revel in the pretense that they're equals whenever she can.

"Draw," she says, throwing that challenging look back at Sabetha, tapping the tabletop between them with her first two fingers. "And we'll see who comes out on top in the end, hmm?"

"Cards!" says a voice behind her head. "I love cards-- what are you playing?" Looking without turning her head, Nazca sees the voice belongs to a young man about their age, olive-skinned, dressed richer than they're pretending to be, and swaying on his feet. Behind him, a broad-shouldered blond man stands watching with a dubious expression while a third, a redhead of equal size, approaches with three foaming pints. 

"Dagger and Sword," says Jean, "but we're in the middle of a round." Somehow he's managed to bulk himself up, take up enough space for two. Nazca's always had an appreciation for Jean Tannen's intimidation skills, but they're lost on the intruding buffoon, who falls down between her and Sabetha with a look of mild surprise for the chair that catches him before he hits the floor. 

"C'mon," he says, tapping the table with ring-studded fingers. "Deal me in." His gaze settles on Sabetha, who's still got the cards poised in her hands. "Come on, pretty one," he drawls, leaning over toward her, his grin broadening into what he surely thinks is a suave, charming expression. He looks more like a Gentled goat in Nazca's opinion; Sabetha's pursed lips and arched brows make it clear she shares the sentiment. 

Jean opens his mouth to argue again just as the redhead with the beers puts one in front of the pickled peacock invading Sabetha's personal space, and Nazca makes a decision-- or rather, her mouth makes it for her, as she hears herself say, "Oh, go on, Beth, deal him in. His friends, too-- no reason not to be sociable." She laughs gaily, a stranger's laugh, her eyes falling on Locke as she sees him take her cue, getting up to offer one of the thugs his seat. 

She doesn't see the touch-- she knows she never would-- but as he slips by making noise about getting more beer for the rest of them, she knows it's happened. She can't remember the last time she did this-- she's no coat-charmer, no Windows girl, and it's been years since she had to prove her mettle as a thief to anyone. She so rarely gets the chance to have fun with a mark, to sit and smile at some rich idiot while his coins dance merrily out of his unwitting pockets. 

It's exhilarating-- better than drinking or fucking or fighting, there's nothing to compare with the feeling of winning, and she loves the Bastards a little bit more for giving her the chance to indulge it. Pride and excitement swell fierce in Nazca's chest til she has to bite the inside of her cheek to keep from laughing. 

By the time Locke's returned with the beer, Alaric Angosta and his two friends-- merchants' sons, all-- are convinced they just made some new friends. Nazca's convinced she's going to end the night even richer than if she'd continued cheating the Gentlemen Bastards out of their coppers.

"Let's start the betting," says Jean, putting four coppers on the table. 

Alaric snorts. "Why bother with that little? A solon to start, make it worth my while." Groping at his waist, he frowns in confusion, looking down into his lap. Sabetha's face is the picture of innocence; Nazca doesn't let herself look at Locke. "Where's my purse?" the fool blusters, shifting in his seat as if he might be sitting on it. "My purse-- must've dropped it, come on, we've got to find it." He starts to lurch to his feet, mumbling about checking outside.

"Be sensible, man," says Locke, shooting a pleading look at Alaric's less inebriated friends. "If you've dropped it, it's already either gone or turned into the Watch. Surely one of your friends can spot you this round?"

"He's got a point," the ginger man says with a sigh, dropping a hand to his pocket and tossing a purse on the table. "We just got warm-- I'll cover you, Alaric." 

Alaric looks from the purse to his friend, his expression drawing down tight. "Is this a joke?" he slurs, snatching up the purse and shaking it in his friend's face. "This is mine! How did you get it off me?"

The redhead's consternation is nearly enough to make Nazca break cover and laugh. "I never-- how did that--" he protests, and she bites her lip as Angosta starts shouting over his friend's insistence that his _own_ purse is the one that's missing, and when the blond finally thinks to check and chimes in that his own is gone as well, she's practically breathless with suppressed laughter.

The shouting swells, the three idiots about to do everyone a favor and punch each other unconscious--

\--and then Locke reaches over to make a show of tugging two of them apart, and a velvet purse falls out of his sleeve onto the table.

There's a moment of silence as the merchants' sons stare from the purse to Locke, who turns his elbow up with a comical look at the betraying tear in his sleeve. "I'm going to have to have words with my tailor," he says with a regretful shake of his head.

The redhead draws breath to shout, but before he can, Jean snatches up his beer and throws its contents into the man's face, sending him staggering back. The blond moves faster than Jean can counter, grabbing Locke's arm and trying to slam him into the table; Locke twists away but loses his balance, reeling into another tableful of people, causing an eruption of beer and shouting. 

After that it's chaos. The beer-drenched people who'd been minding their own business develop a sudden interest in the fight, a handful of bored patrons decide to join in just for fun, and then the whole tavern is brawling, leaving Nazca barely time to breathe between dodging punches and throwing a few of her own. 

But if Nazca's forgotten their prank in the sudden gleeful panic of the fight, their mark hasn't. Nazca turns from grinding an unfortunate lout's toes to pulp to see Angosta grab Sabetha by the back of the neck, spinning her around and shoving her toward the table. 

Fear and fury spike through Nazca like lightning, and she starts toward them, seeing red, only to be blocked by a man wrestling another toward the bar. Penned in by brawlers on all sides, Nazca can only watch as Angosta does something that makes Sabetha squawk in outraged pain. But Locke-- Locke turns toward the sound like a dog to his master's whistle, and almost too fast for Nazca's eye to follow, eels free of the man holding him in a half-nelson and throws himself at Angosta, launching himself across the table in a skid that sends the pair of them crashing to the floor. 

Locke regains his footing right away, but Angosta's friends materialize as if out of nowhere, and Nazca's just close enough to hear Locke say something about someone's mother before the brawl closes in around them. 

_Dammit,_ Nazca thinks, now shoving at the grunting punching assholes around her in a desperate effort to join Sabetha in preventing Locke from ending the night as a smear on the tavern floor. He takes a punch to the stomach and another to the kidney, and then Nazca can't see him anymore. Panicked, she looks for Jean, but he's trapped behind a wall of angry men who want to hit someone and don't much care who, and Sabetha's too busy acquainting her knee with Angosta's balls to see that Locke isn't getting back up.

Nazca doesn't waste any time. She wades in, applying her elbows and steel-tipped boots liberally, clearing a space to get her _pezon_ up off the floor. "Get out of here," she shouts into his ear, and mercifully, he doesn't argue. Nazca sends Angosta's blond friend to the ground with a kick to the shin that probably draws blood; she doesn't stick around to find out. As soon as he's down she's gone, following in Locke's footsteps.

Outside it's cooler, and quiet enough that Nazca can follow the clear sounds of retching around the corner to where Locke is standing hunched over, grabbing his knees with white-knuckled fingers, spitting into the mud.

She sighs, and adopts a similar position next to him, rubbing his back with slow circles. "'Mfine," he slurs. She doesn't stop until she feels his shoulders relax. "Was gonna plant it on Alaric," he says. "Guess I need to be more aware of holes in my shirts."

"One of these days you're actually going to get your teeth knocked down your throat," she observes, though she's smiling a little. 

"Probably," he says, craning his head to look up at her. A bruise blossoming on one cheekbone, sweat-damp and pale from puking his guts up, he's one of the more pathetic things she's seen lately. _But it never seems to daunt him_. He's so full of swagger, her _pezon_ ; she can't help liking that, but people just seem to line up for the chance to smack it out of him. Lucky for him-- and for her, she thinks-- he never stays down for long.

"You're sworn to me, you know," she says. Her voice stays conversational, but she's never been more serious.

"I do remember," he says over another little cough. "Chains hardly lets me forget."

"That means your life and service are mine. Sabetha doesn't need your protection-- trying to prove your devotion by getting yourself pounded into chopmeat won't make her like you. And it'll make me really fucking pissed off." He looks up at the fervor in her voice, surprise and wariness painting his face.

"Stop picking fights with drunk fuckers three times your size," she sighs. "I'd like not to lose my first _pezon_ before he's been of any use to me whatsoever."

He straightens so fast he winces, protesting even as he's laughing, "I've been plenty useful. How many times did I sneak you out of the Grave when your father tried to ground you?"

"You never snuck me out, Locke Lamora," she retorts, indignant. "You just provided a big fuckup of a distraction while I snuck _myself_ out."

"Fine, fine, my ribs hurt too much to argue with you," he says, but he's still smiling, and there's no rasp in his breathing; he's bruised, but he'll mend. 

"Anyone ever tell you you've got the Thirteenth's own luck?" she asks, shaking her head.

"Once or twice," he assents with a nod. There's a clinking sound, and then he's juggling the three purses he lifted off their erstwhile drinking companions. "Probably ought to clear out before they notice these are missing, huh."

With deft fingers, Nazca plucks first one, then a second purse out of the air. When Locke's eyebrows climb skyward in deep skepticism, she lifts her chin right back at him. "Am I your _garrista_ or not?" she asks. He ducks his head, abashed, and nods. After a moment's consideration, she hands him back one purse. "That's for Chains, to go into your tribute to my father this month." 

Miracle of miracles, he doesn't retort, just pockets it with a thoughtful look. "You're going to be a good _garrista_ when you get older," he says after a stretch of silence. He looks down at his feet, and mutters, "And an even better Capa."

Shock thrills through her to hear it spoken aloud, the first time anyone's acknowledged it to her face. She wants to laugh, to crow, to squeeze his hands and thank him for daring.

She does none of those things. She likes Locke very much, but he's just made a gesture of respect, and it ought to be met with a deserving response.

"You're not going to be such a bad _garrista_ yourself," she says, a little cool and a little wry, but when he looks up so their eyes meet, she knows he can see she means it. 

She waits just until he's thinking about responding to add, "If you don't end up dead in a canal with your throat slit for being the most brazenly stupid arsewipe this side of Tal Verrar."

His grin goes crooked; if she didn't know better she'd swear he was blushing. "Give me credit where it's due, Nazca," he says. "I have it on good authority I'm the most brazenly stupid arsewipe _anywhere_."

There's a swell in the noise from inside the tavern as the door swings open, then Jean and Sabetha are there, hands on hips and looking at Locke with similar expressions of impressed bafflement. "Everything still in one piece?" asks Jean, and Nazca grins. 

"Unless you count his head," she says, and Sabetha finishes, "but that was never a sure thing to begin with."

"Some friends you are," says Locke, straightening and scrubbing the back of his hand across his mouth.

"We are, aren't we?" says Nazca archly, linking her arm through his. "Now let's get out of here before Alaric and his friends decide to come back for round two."

"We could take 'em," Locke mumbles, listing into her a little bit. Jean snarks back and Sabetha laughs, but Nazca's not listening, too busy drawing a deep breath of the cool night and feeling the tingle of happiness feather out through her fingers. She could get used to this, she thinks, allowing herself to imagine how it'll be, years hence, ruling the Right People with these three by her side. _Not such a bad future, all in all._

The sounds of their merriment cocoon around them, keeping them warm, and Nazca tucks her arm a little tighter through Locke's, smiling to herself as they make their way through the city.

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Mattador for Yuletide 2014. I'm always thrilled for the opportunity to write about the Bastards, and I love Locke and Nazca's relationship, so this was truly a joy to write for many reasons. 
> 
> Title is from Brooklyn Nine Nine. The working title was 'Born for Politics', also from a B99 quote: "I was born for politics-- I have great hair and I love lying." Pretty sure there's a universe in my head where the Bastards are an unruly group of city cops led by their no-shit-taking Captain who somehow earned the nickname Chains... but I digress. 
> 
> Thanks ever so to R and C for pre-reading and talking me through this. Any mistakes are mine, not theirs.


End file.
